


Fucking Puff the Magic Dragon

by Atanih88



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:36:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanih88/pseuds/Atanih88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean get hit with a bit of faerie dust. This is what they wake up to the morning after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fucking Puff the Magic Dragon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lavishsqualor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavishsqualor/gifts).



> Written as a part of spnspringfling 2012, for lavishsqualor

It's revenge of the faeries, or something. That's what Dean thinks after they've both had time to calm down and in his case, healed enough to be able to actually sit down.

It's on a drive through Texas—fucking _Texas_ of all places—that they get hit up with faery dust.

Dean's not even sure how it happens. He remembers thinking there was some crazy shit going on in the diner they stopped over, but he'd been hopped up on painkillers. His side hurt like a bitch and Sam had been hovering, glancing up at him all the time, mouth tight because Dean had already snapped at him twice over fussing over him.

Next thing he knows, creepy Stepford wife waitress is giggling at them and blowing something that smells like burnt candy in their faces. Then she literally skips away, complete with twirls and all, leaving them both coughing and hacking the stuff out even as it clung to the back of the throat.

It gets fuzzy after that.

So really, it starts with Dean groaning and attempting to lift his head from the pillow. 

His eyes feel swollen and he wants to bury himself back under the blankets and pillows—or maybe just shoot himself in the head because that has to be an improvement on the pounding in his temples—and go back to a state of unconsciousness. Seriously. _Any_ state of unconsciousness will do. Instead he makes an effort, even manages to force them open a sliver. 

Quite a few things become clear real quick.

It feels like he's torn the stitches on his side. His mouth feels like it's been stuffed with cotton sugar, the roof of his mouth dry and tongue tacky. His body hurts everywhere, elbows and knees in particular, stiff and protesting movement as he tries to lift his head a little more. And everything below the waist feels—

Dean stops. Swallows. Then he clenches down on the feel of stuff seeping out and _what_ the fucking _fuck_. His breath catches in his throat and he realizes that he probably won't be able to sit for a while. His dick feels raw too and he winces as it bumps against firm muscle that has his attention span suddenly sharpening to a pin point. It makes him actually _look_ at what's in front of him.

He recognizes the back of that head. Sam's hair is all over the pillow and he's sprawled out. That's Sam's thigh Dean's cock is attempting to snuggle up to. The sheet—which he isn't sure if it's supposed to be that color or if white is just no longer an option for it—is falling off the end of the bed, only hanging on by the bit that's still tucked in at the corner of the bed.

Which means there's a lot on display.

Dean stares. Sam's back is one big mess of purpling bruises and lines that look like they're supposed to be scratches, but instead, came out looking like someone had attempted to slice up his back.

It takes him surprisingly long to put two and two together. 

There's no one else in the room with them. Dean feels like his body's been broken into and Sam looks like someone's gone feral on him. And it's just the two of them. Naked. In bed.

So he does the only thing he can do.

He jerks back so fast his ass falls out of the bed and he knocks his head on the corner of the bedside table. 

He stays there, sitting on the floor, cursing and clutching at his head and gritting his teeth against the pain, registers a peculiar soreness over his shoulder too. But, shit. Screw sitting down. Maybe he just won't walk for a while.

"Dean?"

Dean stills. Sam's voice sounds like someone's gone at his vocal chords with a cheese grater. Dean pulls in a slow breath and rubs at his face, then lowers his hands.

Sam's still on the bed but he's sitting up now. There's a sort of stunned horror on his face as he takes in the room, which Dean hadn't really taken notice of until now.

It's pretty much destroyed. He's surprised no one actually called the cops on them. There's a broken lamp on the floor. The TV is just an inch or so shy of falling off the stand. A small round table, about big enough for two people, is knocked on its side. One of the chairs is broken and the other one—

Dean looks away because he has a good idea of what that white stuff is.

"Dean, wha—"

"Don't. Just. _Don't_ , Sam."

But he hears the sharp intake of breath and when he glances back up he sees Sam's staring. Not at Dean's face. His eyes are focused lower and Dean realizes how he's sitting; knees drawn up with his arms resting on them. And all that stuff is coming out.

"Jesus," he mutters. His cheeks heat up and there's a queasy roll in his stomach. He ignores all the aches and pains and leans forward to nab one end of the sheet. He jerks it the rest of the way off the bed and covers himself with it.

God, the room stinks of sugar and sex, with the stale smell of spilt beer and cigarettes buried just underneath that.

"What happened?" Sam asks and despite the fact that Dean's all covered up now, he's still watching him, attention still locked on Dean's crotch, eyes wide and completely unaware that he's got it all hanging out too. 

Dean tries not to look. It's hard not to though, when he realizes his brother's hung like a damn horse and that that thing is probably what did all the damage.

He might be sick.

"Dean?" The bed shifts and springs squeak as Sam scoots over to the edge, wincing a little when he straightens his back. It's probably all the crazy scratches on Sam's back.

Dean closes his eyes for a moment. He knows how to breathe damn it.

"Fairy dust," he bites out. Then he sucks it up and pushes himself to his feet, grimacing the whole time. His legs feel unsteady and his knees protest the move too. For a second he doesn't know what else to do. Just stands there, holding onto the sheet like it's a lifeline.

"Did we—"

"I don't know. Yes." He shakes his head and starts making his way around the bed towards the door he can only hope leads to a shower. He needs to get cleaned up, focus and get his head on straight. Then maybe, _maybe_ , he can handle this.

"Holy shit."

"What?" He turns around, glaring, ready to tear something down.

But all Sam does is point to his shoulder. "Your shoulder…" He doesn't manage much else and Dean spares a brief second to wonder if his brother's going into shock or something before he marches to the door—and _yes_ , bathroom—and slaps at the light switch.

The sight the mirror presents him with almost makes the wild retro colors of the tiles in the bathroom look nice. 

His hair is standing up on end, his mouth too swollen and dark; there are bite marks and hickeys all over his neck and the tops of his arms and bruises everywhere else. He looks like he's been mauled.

A movement in the mirror has his eyes flicking up to meet Sam's. Sam's mouth is pressed into a thin line and his face looks drained of color. He hasn't put on any clothes and Dean wants to call him on it but Sam is sticking close to him, close enough that his chest is brushing against the back of Dean's arm. Dean would yell at him about that too, considering, but he's seen this before, the instinctive need for closeness Sam gets when he can't quite make out what's happening. Though in this case, Dean's pretty sure Sam realizes what's happened. He just doesn't know what to make of it any more than Dean does.

So when Sam swallows hard enough for Dean to hear the click of it in the quiet of the bathroom, Dean pays attention.

"Dean. Look." He reaches out, taps two fingers against Dean's shoulder, the touch gentle but still making Dean wince.

Dean turns enough to catch a look at his shoulder and feels himself go numb. 

"Motherfu—"

And right there on his shoulder, in permanent ink, is fucking Puff the Magic Dragon.


End file.
